


the limbic ordeal

by Hydra_Trash_Gal



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Relationships, HYDRA Husbands, HYDRA Trash Party, Homophobic Language, Hydra (Marvel), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rumrollins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-05 02:47:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17316626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hydra_Trash_Gal/pseuds/Hydra_Trash_Gal
Summary: Brock was a joke; a mess; a man hopeless and irrevocably enamored to a man who didn't give a shit. He could walk away any second and not be bothered and that affected Brock. It was like a wound that never could heal over because Brock had a compulsion to pick at it. It felt nice at times, Jack was like a drug — his own personal, intoxicating version of morphine — that he drank in desperately. He was addicted to Rollins and it would kill him.





	1. a perfect disaster

**Author's Note:**

> So this like a prequel? to the Winter’s Keeper series. It’s pre-CAWS and almost 100% hydra trash. 
> 
> Thank you to Kalika999 for giving me the encouragement to post this.
> 
> If you like it please let me know!

Being a sleeper agent was no easy feat.

Though, with the extermination of Fury and Pierce rising up as the Director of SHIELD, all the Hydra sleeper agents could breathe easy. There was still a distinction between those who were Hydra and those who didn't have a chance in hell. Rumlow's assignments improved, missions were a bit more challenging. It was the Director acknowledging all Rumlow had done. 

Rumlow did his time, crossed his T's and dotted his I's through a painfully dull summer. Soon, he would be pulled on basis of 'confidential missions' and be a full time Hydra agent until next summer rolled around. "Perhaps longer, if you please me." Piece had teased.

Fuck was Rumlow ready to bust ass. Anything to get away from the goodie two shoes Rogers who did every damn thing by the book and just perfectly. Brock was itching to bark out some orders; to have his own Super Soldier who halted and heeled at his word. 

Soon, he promised himself. Very soon.

The day came and Brock drove up that winding mountain road far too fast, eager to get into the secret base where they housed the Asset. Hell, he even missed the paperwork and debriefs. He hadn't caught sight of Rollins in almost two months but that wasn't so unusual; he was an explosives expert and that got him pulled halfway across the world in a second. Though a text would have sufficed. 

A simple: hey I'm not fucking dead.

Rumlow has poked around his house on occasion, checking to see if anyone had been in or around. It'd been a good week since he last went up to check but promised himself he would do so this evening. If the op had gone bad they would know...right? 

Brock had to dig for the secondary badge to get in and hold it against the sensor for almost three seconds before it gave an off-key beep and the light faded from red to a story of reddish green. The doors wrenched apart with a worn squealing noise and Brock grimaced a bit. The air was stale and wet — the cons of an underground base. 

Once he made past the first few heavy blast doors the remodel Pierce had boasted about became abundantly obvious. It was sleek inside, all white tile and shiny metal flooring. The break room had been opened up and they had twice the counter space, a new working fridge that didn't carry the stench of rotting Chinese food and a microwave that wasn't crusted with old food inside. Of course there were little 'housekeeping' notices hung up on the bulletin board (which was also replaced; so many artfully drawn cocks and squids gone.), all signed by Shelly the cunt of the Second Floor. She did all the administrative paperwork shit. Shelly and her band of keyboard nazis, as she and her band of bitchy untouchable staff were known as. 

Brock's Strike Team ran pools on who would get the first passive aggressive email on 'returning agent paperwork'. Brock had even missed those emails, he realized as he popped a coffee pod into the snazzy new coffee brewer. Single cup: no more cold, burnt coffee to be choked down. And the coffee was the good shit, not generic. He stole someone's creamer and dumped a bit of sugar in it before he strolled toward his own office.

There was almost a fucking skip in his step he was so happy to be there. He was going back to the Cause, doing the work that made a difference rather than playing spies on fake missions that didn't matter with Captain America and his band of idiot Avengers. Although he didn't mind Barton so much even though he was deaf without the ear pieces Stark made him. There was something to appreciate about him standing up there, beside a bunch of non-humans, dependent only on skill. Brock had crawled to the top himself, through Basic and through the Marines until by chance his file was passed over to the Secretary who took a chance.

Once he mentioned Clint being a good possible fit but then Coulson got his claws in him and they knew there was nothing more that could be done. Barton wouldn't have been a good asset because he cared too deeply about SHIELD and what he thought they were doing. And there was nothing more dangerous than delusional men fighting for a cause they truly think is right. Hydra had changed since the Nazis but the world wouldn't see it that way; it was best that they remained in the shadows. 

God works in mysterious ways — assuming that by God you mean Hydra.

Brock unlocked his office door. It felt empty and hollow at first. Desktop there, recently upgraded as usual. He sunk down in his seat and opened the drawers to look at the files from all his service. He exhaled and fired up the Dell. He checked his phone for any texts or emails, including the burner that only Rollins had the number to. 

Nothing.

He logged into the server and accessed the Intranet. He had a pile of 'welcome emails' to sort through but rearranged them by color coding. Reds: they were rare and came from those above him. The Director or The Secretary. Yellows: the tech team that maintained the Asset and any pressing matters about on-base issues such as training schedules and orientation times (which he never fucking went to; he just assigned one of his men to do it. Why would he waste his morning telling a bunch of rookies who weren't cut out for Hydra how they weren't good enough. Rollins loved it. He often returned an email with the number of potentials he had made cry). 

He was shocked to find not one but two reds waiting for him and checked the time to verify he wasn't late. They'd been sent months ago, before he was even active. They had a contact process for emergencies but this didn't seem emergent so much as important. He opened the first on from Director Pierce 

Sender: dir.a.pierce@intranethivesecure  
Receiver: cota.b.rumlow@intranethivesecure  
Subject: SECURE# IMMEDIATE PROTOCOL CHANGE  
Message: Commander [REDACTED], there has been an immediate change to the handling of [REDACTED]. Upon arrival dial EXT. 7544 to schedule a time to meet with [REDACTED].  
Regards,  
[REDACTED]

Brock rubbed a hand over his face he reached for the phone. The line ran twice before a woman picked up. "Just a moment." He was put on hold, elevator music of the worse variety for a long moment before Pierce's voice purred through the telephone. Brock's hair stood on end and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Alexander Pierce had always been a fair man to work for, one just as hungry for Brock to succeed as he was to ride up in ranks and prove himself. That didn't mean Brock liked the guy. He absolutely didn't. "Welcome back. Unfortunately your first day will be much busier than I'm sure you anticipated."

"Happy to be back Sir. How can I be of assistance?" Brock wanted to know whatever was being asked of him so he could drag his ass down to medical for his physical. 

"Come down to the Vault," he sounded giddy and that wasn't good. What had he done to Winter? What else had he created during Brock's off time? "At ten thirty. That should give you some time to get your feet in the ground. No need to visit the armory either — your baton will do just fine Commander."

Huh. Brock hung up the line and wondered if they'd worked all the bugs out of the Asset's programming because if so that was fantastic. Not that Brock had any difficulties getting a handle on it when it started to think it was a real boy. The second red-coded email was from the secretary letting him know of the meeting this afternoon. The yellows flew by, just a few techs posting stupid PSA shit about the Asset, sent level-wide, that he already knew. 

He printed out the bullshit health forms and booked himself for an appointment down in medical. "And I gotta meeting with Pierce so don't fuck around, alright?" 

They had a nasty habit of letting people sit in the waiting room. It chewed up his time last year and he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice. Like he gave a shit if they had an emergency med-evac they needed to see? After the nerds in medical finished up the round of vaccines for his out of country ops and Brock had shrugged out of the smock back into his clothing he made them scan the reports back to Shelly. He had his money on Porter getting the bitchy email.

He ran up to his office to grab a few things for the meeting and stopped dead at the man sitting there with his feet up on his desk. His heart didn't fucking skip a beat or anything but maybe there was a flutter in his lower stomach. 

Maybe one of the vaccines was off because he would never have fucking thought that. 

But that was Rollins in his office. He was back. There was an urge to rush in there and scold him for scampering off without telling his fucking CO where he was going. For not telling Brock he was safe, even though it could have jeopardized the mission or even been impossible at some corners of the world. He felt faint with relief, a burden whisked off his shoulders by his SIC, his Rollins, his not-so-significant-other. 

He... He had been standing in place far too long and Rollins tilted his head up at him from whatever he doing on his computer. There was look of purposeful casualness in his green eyes had a shimmer of amusement to them.

"See this email from Pierce? I'm s'pose to meet with 'im at ten thirty."

Fuck, was Rumlow happy for that! "Yeah me to." He closed the door behind him and exhaled slowly, carefully. Anger boiled up inside him as well as the strange urge to cry and fling his arms around Jack. But that'd be really fucking unprofessional. 

Jack took his feet off the desk and stood. The office wasn't huge but it felt like Jack's bulk swallowed up all the free space. He smelled of gun oil, detergent and citrus aftershave. Brock closed the blinds on the window and the hit the lock before he could question his own motives and flung himself into Jack's arms. It was raw and emotional and everything Brock had missed.

Jack didn't waste a moment pulling Brock even tighter against his chest but he did exhale a bit, a short hiss of poorly hidden pain, and Brock's eyes snapped opened. He gingerly pulled away and Jack glowered down at him. "I'm fine, Princess."

Fuck did Brock hate (read: love) that stupid degrading nickname. He took the hem of Rollin's charcoal gray Henley and peeled it up. Washboard abs, tanned skin, and finally a bandage stained in rusty red over his hip. "You got shot." 

"Shrapnel, stupid." Jack pushed his hand away. "My fault, blast range was compromised."

Rollins knew explosives like the back of his fucking hand so that was bullshit. "Don't lie to me."

"Can't tell you more than that, Rumlow. Classified." Jack's eyes were unreadable but he smiled for Brock's sake. It didn't help. "Did you miss me?"

Brock scoffed and pushed around him. He wished Rollins was still gone; he forgot how his mind clogged up when he got back from sudden, unexpected trips. There were ways around it of course. If they were...official, Brock would know when he was leaving and be given an ETA as well as updates but he didn't want to hurt his career, stop having Rollins as his second or lose any hard earned respect either. 

He lowered himself into the chair and logged into his own email. A confirmation of receipt of medical documents from Shelly: another tick mark for his own personal to-do list. Jack leaned against the wall and studied him — the game it will was beginning. It was one sided because Brock always broke first. Rollins had an unfair advantage coming from a deaf household. He thrived on silent body language alone. 

"Alpha is meeting at three thirty, West Conference room," Brock grunted when the reservation was confirmed, losing the game less than five minutes after it began.

It was idiotic he even had to put it together. Surely there were better uses of company resources than a team-gathering. All the information could be relayed through email anyway and that would save them from chitchat. Although Rumlow would be a liar to say he hadn't missed the team of morons. They were good on the field but train-wrecks off it, sort of like himself. 

Jack hummed and straightened up, coming around the desk. Brock's body tightened up — if it was anticipation or tension he wasn't sure. Once those fight-roughened hands fell on his shoulders, that string was cut and he exhaled. It wasn't fucking fair what this man could do to him. He'd never cared about someone this much, save for his team when he was in the field and that was life or death. This Rollins tour end date was unknown. 

"If I coulda told you I was leavin' you know I woulda, Princess." Jack rested his chin on top of Brock's head. 

It was warm, comforting, safe..and everything Brock didn't have fucking time for. "As long as it doesn't hinder you function as my SIC, it's none of my business."

A lesser man would have read Brock's tone, the harshness that bordered on hatred and fucked off. Jack knew him better — often times he knew Brock better than Brock knew himself. And Christ was that fucked. Rollins let out a breathy chuckle at his antics and pressed his lips, thin and a bit dry (Middle East op maybe? Brock knew there was something in the wind about toppling a rising regime but hell, that could have been SHIELD's area for all he knew) against his mouth. Brock considered shrugging him off or busting his nose with an elbow stroke but decided against it. 

The kiss was chaste and pretty gay but it felt nice.

His phone rumbled against the desk and Brock ignored it as he polished up his meeting debrief (it hadn't happened yet but he knew exactly what would be said and no one actually read this shit). "Gonna get that?" Jack asked after the fifth notification buzz.

"Nah. If it was important they'd call me." Brock gave Jack the first smile since his impromptu arrival, crooked and just arrogant enough to be as annoying and smug as it was endearing.

Jack scooped up the phone and unlocked it. "Hey — hey!" Brock's eyes narrowed, "How the fuck do you know my password?"

It was Jack's turn to smile. All teeth and all predatory. It was frightening and arousing and everything that made Jack who he was. His dark green eyes glinted with an appeal that made Brock's mouth dry and his will scarce. The things this man does to me he thought frightfully for a moment. "It's the same password for all your shit. You really need to get better security."

Brock sneered but Jack was right. Too long he'd been depending on the same make up of numbers, letters and symbols to meet all the bullshit Hydra requirements. Br0ckIO1! was not as clever as it seemed when he got out of basic all those years ago. 

It still floored him, thinking of himself as a rookie with a sour attitude — the same kind he didn't tolerate for a second now he ran the show. He was thankful for his Sargent putting up with him, teaching him enough discipline to land him in such a comfortable place, working for an elite organization that would fix the mess the world had become. "Whatever." Brock amended the covered topics once.

Basic radio etiquette became reviewed commands and phrases with entire STRIKE Alpha team (because fuck if he had another mission almost botched by someone like Collins using the system for casual conversation) led by Warrant Officer Rollins. That was good. Bravo Commander used her SIC for all kinds of scut work she didn't want to bother with and last year she'd made a wise crack about Rollins not doing anything administrative.

"The fuck am I leading?" Jack was reading over his shoulder which drove him crazy on a normal basis but feeling his breath on the back his neck didn't help stoke the flames of anything except desperate arousal.

"Nothing." 

"Hmm. It was Micheals." Brock's face twisted. Alpha's Communication expert who was a fucking whiz with technology but an absolute nightmare in all other fields. "He's just expressing his excitement for all the meetings he has with you today."

"Tell him to fuck off." Brock was glad to see the kid but not to talk to him. He would happily catch sight of him once to confirm he had bumbled his way through the off-season doing whatever the fuck it was he did here when the Team laid dormant. 

"I was thinking 'I missed you too Franklin. Let's get frozen yogurt and catch up on everything you've done this year' was more appropriate." Rollins husky voice made even that threat seem enticing. Thankfully Brock had enough neurons still functioning to nab him in the solar plexus (careful of his wound) and get his phone back into his hands. There was even a little face there: an emoji. "You're such an asshole."

"Well I’m your asshole," Brock corrected without a thought, as he cleared the message and then all the air from the room vanished.

He'd said that. He'd actually said those words out loud like some desperate, queer idiot who — "That's right Brock." Jack didn't even use the stupid 'Princess' nickname. Brock's lungs were searing; he needed to inhale. "Mine."

Brock's body kicked back into motion with a horribly abrasive wheezing inhale that would have out pre-serum Steve Rogers to shame if the Cap's tales rung true. He felt like he was choking, the air was too dry and too thin and his head was spinning. The hands on his shoulders squeezed tighter. "Brock? You good?"

"Fine." He croaked but he wasn't fine. Nothing would be fucking fine again. Jack waltzed off and he came back like he always did but this time Brock had to be an idiot about it. Make it into a thing when he worked so diligently to avoid anything becoming a thing. "Fine. Just — "

"I told you," Jack said in his slow unhurried tone, midwestern accent drawling out which was really not fucking helping! "This can be whatever you want it to be. Wanna hang out on weekends? That's fine. Wanna pull back and keep it professional? That's also fine. Don't freak out. Just tell me what what you want." 

I don't want everything to be fine. Tell me what you want. Fight for it you bastard. "I want to get my work done in peace." By some small miracle his voice held steady. "Done your physical yet? If not get down there; we got a pool going."

Jack held on for half a beat and then strode to the door. "Roger that, Commander." He smirked. "See ya downstairs later?"

"Ten thirty." Brock didn't look away from the screen. He didn't trust himself too. 

When the door shut he checked to make sure Rollins was gone and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was an idiot...the same rookie who thought facing up to his SO was the best way to get noticed. They trusted him to command an elite team, navigate difficult situations with a Soviet Assassin following his every order and he couldn't even communicate effectively with his Second? 

Brock was a joke; a mess; a man hopeless and irrevocably enamored to a man who didn't give a shit. He could walk away any second and not be bothered and that affected Brock. It was like a wound that never could heal over because Brock had a compulsion to pick at it. It felt nice at times, Jack was like a drug — his own personal, intoxicating version of morphine — that he drank in desperately. He was addicted to Rollins and it would kill him.

It killed him each time he left. How much better it felt when he returned. It killed him because he was weak for it. Pathetic. He didn't ask to be a faggot and certainly not for a subordinate which was messy in it's own regard. He put his face in his hands and wanted to hit something. To be hit. To make the pain inside of him reflect properly on the outside so if someone caught sight of his wounded behavior at least he had an excuse for it.

Order was supposed to come through pain but nothing in his life was orderly when Rollins was gone. Brock exhaled once his lungs burned again. Christ was he forgetting how to breathe now? 

The desktop clock read ten am. He decided that going for a smoke would eat up some time and the nicotine would steady his nerves. 

He thought. 

He hoped.


	2. gods and monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tensions remain between Rumlow and Rollins while a meeting brings an unexpected change to the handling of the Fist of Hydra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait!

Brock smoked his first menthol down to the filter.

Acrid plumes of smoke burned him from the inside and it felt okay for a moment. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he studied the plain cement wall that rose fifty or so feet up in the air. Like a jail house yard, almost. They brought the Soldier out when he was behaving and let him wander 'free' in the compound — with at least five guns pointed at him at all times in case the crazy bastard tried anything. 

Brock had observed once from the floor above. The conference room window gave him a wide view. The Soldier walked around cautiously, eyeing whomever it was who had been given activation phrases for this outing. He was testing the boundaries, rounding back around close to the Handler so he could be grabbed and subdued if he was not following procedure. 

That was always so striking for Brock, the mind of this creature. Damn near a dog who'd been hit a few too many times, skulking around waiting to get kicked for simply being there. It was probably Hydra's fault just as much as it was the Soldier's own doing with his history of poor behavior. The position attracted douchebags and, as a douchebag, Brock could see the appeal of it. 

While Brock was happy just flexing his power in front of his subordinates and the other Commanders deemed unworthy of such a wildly dangerous but incredibly fulfilling experience, others were sadistic or just plainly perverted. 

Not Brock though, he took the position seriously and saw the Asset as a Weapon — not a plaything to be broken and repaired. He couldn't even begin to stomach the shit some of the people pulled when they thought their superiors weren't looking. Not that the shit they pulled when their superiors were looking was any better.

The Soldier, the whimpering muzzled dog with his tail tucked figuratively between his legs always did the same five tight circles before he began to understand that space was open for him to explore. 

He always needed to touch things and Rumlow wondered if it had to do with the cryo tanks. Deprived of sensation for so long his body must have craved it. Eventually he would stop his loping and stare blankly at the sky. Sun or rain or snow flurries, he would tilt his head back and bask in it. Rollins never stuck around. "Poor bastard is pathetic enough as is; I'll be on comm just in case you need me."

Brock wanted to need Jack always and at the same exact time wanted that urge to vanish. He needed to bury it beneath his common sense but it was now too late. Brock had let his big fucking mouth get the best of him: he deserved this — this choking moment of a missed step for which there was no swift consequences. He wasn't falling down the steps or off a cliff (though the latter didn't sound so bad, currently). 

Brock's mood and day and probably the rest of his fucking life was spoiled and he wanted to go home. 

Instead he lit another cigarette. He remembered one of those grotesque anti-smoking ads aimed toward the impressionable youth that claimed each cigarette took seven minutes off your life. Not so discouraging really. Rogers smoked, a little known fact about the hotshot SHIELD drooled over. Rumlow has gotten close during his time working with him, close enough to know that back in his day everyone smoked and he never could due to his asthma. It couldn't hurt him and he liked it, the feeling of accomplishment even though it was stupid and nothing he could ever condone.

Rogers was funny like that. He held himself together well but those tight knit seams were not perfect. He was a perfect soldier but he was just as human as the rest of them. Flawed, angry, and deeply frustrated by his own existence. Depression had taken good men, PTSD had taken even more and Rogers showed signs of both. The brain didn't heal like the rest of his modified body...the Soldier was proof of that.

He smoked his fifth one down to the filter and then went to the meeting. He would sit beside Jack like he always did because Jack didn't care and so Brock shouldn't either. 

•• •• •• •• ••

The conference room was filling steadily.

Hydra was still militaristic at heart so every employee whether they be tech or tact knew the 'quarter to quarter to' rule. Michaels did not sit at the table and Brock didn't see any other Alpha members. Had tech scarfed the Communications genius out from under his nose while he was undercover? If so he was going to rage. He had shaped the spineless man, more content to sit behind a keyboard and nerd out about Star Trek and Stark technology than hold a gun and kill enemies, into a halfway decent agent and that was no easy feat. 

Rumlow's spirits dampened further as he saw Michaels grin at Waites from the tech team who was also standing. She seemed a bit too pleased for comfort. Brock ached to lean over and share his worry with Jack but no, he was the Commander and he was capable of thinking his own independent thoughts without Jack fucking Rollins chiming in on them and validating it. 

When Pierce entered there was a change in environment. Everyone stood a bit straighter, focus sharp and unwavering. No matter what rank they were in or which team they were on there was a communal sense of fear of the man in front of them coupled with unwavering commitment and respect. 

Pierce carried himself with authority and there was no doubt that his work would be written in the history books. The Man who fixed the World — or properly something a bit more pleasing to the ear; Brock was no good when it came to poetry or anything creative to that matter. He liked simple things: sports, beer, quiet time off alone (or with Jack but fuck he's not supposed to think about Jack) in his one bedroom condo. 

"Thank you for joining us," Pierce had a good speaking voice. Deep and comforting. No boring lulls like when the tech talked. "We are here to celebrate a truly incredible achievement made by the joint efforts of Franklin Michaels of Strike Team Alpha and Mollie Waites of our technical team. They have both earned a round of applause." 

It came, choppy and first before it rose with feigned enthusiasm as everyone scoffed to themselves at the task on hand. Pierce did not hand out public approval often and everyone felt a bit raw that these members were those picked. Brock's email seemed to populate every second he was away from his desk. Before he left it was at 152 unread messages. He hoped this wouldn't be too long winded because he could smell Jack's after shave and was thinking about how it felt to have Jack's hand cupped over the back of his neck as he kissed him so hard their teeth clicked against each other.

"Agent Michaels," Pierce said once applause has died down. "Has assisted the technical team in an ongoing issue with our Asset. While highly skilled and invaluable, it does malfunction. Even beneath the orders of myself and Commander Rumlow," Brock gained a nod of approval and recognition that tapered the feeling of nervousness a bit. What did they do to the Asset now? "The malfunctions have been completely eradicated. I'll allow Agent Michaels to indulge the details."

Microsoft PowerPoint came up and there was a collective groan amongst those in the room. "It's really interesting," Michaels said excitedly but of course he would say that; the agent would ramble about nonsense nonstop for days if no one stopped him. "Okay, so, even with the memory therapies that began shortly after the start of World War Two and the technological implants, we've run into issues with those protocols and conditioning actually remaining intact. The electric waves can stop certain neurons from firing but the Soldier's body will heal and the brain activity we don't want happening, would begin again. We'd call that a 'Lapse in Conditioning' in the field. The Soldier would forget where it was, the task at hand, who was the enemy... Not so good. So, Zola implemented the use of chips. An implant in the Soldier's brain to override control and halt that healing factor. Those chips however would erode and cause damage to the Soldier's brain that the Serum would fix but cause extremely erratic behavior during the healing time. The brain would then reject the chips sooner the next time we tried to implant them giving us a smaller window of time during each replacement."

During his little speech he flickered through a variety of a slides. Scans labeled before and after so called 'memory therapy' (it was a goddamn electric chair and last Brock knew therapy didn't involve screaming). There were images the chips from Zola's era and the newer ones tech placed as well as scans relating to brain activity. Brock glanced toward Rollins wondering his take on it all but his stern expression left everything to imagination as he seemed completely unbothered. He could have been bored or annoyed or horrified, who knew — it wasn't fair that Jack knew Brock so well when Brock couldn't even tell what Jack was feeling unless he chose to show it.

"So this summer I heard about this really neat experimental procedure where we actually remove the entirety of the limbic portion of the Soldier's brain piece by piece. Within two weeks the tissue had grown back." Brock was equal parts impressed and disgusted. Whatever or whoever the Asset had been was gone. No more malfunctions which was good for Brock's men but Christ did that knock the air out of him. "We turned our Asset into a 'blank slate' and built him up from that. Combat and arsenal knowledge was restored thanks to Zola's chip — even after rejection of them, the knowledge was kept in the Soldier's new brain."

"So we'll have to rebuilt report then to." Brock cut in bitterly. It was the bit of humanity in the Soldier that helped the process along in the beginning and now, fuck, they were starting all over. Brock couldn't calm the Soldier with a soft voice and 'hey, I'm nice to you, right?'. 

"Yes and no." Michaels opened a graph that Brock didn't want to even try and comprehend. He found himself peering at Rollins again, at the curve of his shoulder in the dark sweater he wore. Brock almost snorted at the logo he hadn't noticed sitting so perfectly on the swell of his bicep. SHIELD — he was a cocky son of bitch with no ounce of fear. He wore it ironically but more than that, he wore it well. "We — well, Mollie and I," another too-warm smile at Waites. Brock's hands balled into fists. It was an unspoken rule: no fucking the tech team because they were useless. "Built other chips, after Zola's works so we can't take full credit on an array of additional knowledge. We couldn't cover everything — I mean, we hoped to but time gets away from you..."

Pierce cleared his throat and Michaels went pale. Brock wished he had the power to shut him up that easily. "Hydra mission goals were internalized and he was given knowledge that you and Agent Rollins are his SO. He's learning, you see. It's fascinating how he replicates and experiments himself in social situations. Greetings, habits, even phrases — " Murphy could have kept going but showed a bit of self control and went through the rest of the slides. "The logistical side really only applies to the technical team but those of us on tactical can also benefit from understanding. We're moving away from the 'machine' mentality back toward 'soldier'. Making a person of him, if you will. Machines are not as reliable as good, loyal men."

Make a person of the Asset? Brock shouldn't have fucking gotten out of bed this morning. 

"At this time the Soldier will no longer be kept in cryo freeze during active mission months to continue experimentation." Brock was ready to object to that on the basis of being idiotic but beneath the table Jack's leg jostled Brock's. It was fleeting, easily an accident but fuck it went straight to his cock. "You'll see him around base some — he knows where he is and isn't allowed but we've given him clearance to explore and 'understand' if you will. He has a tracking device however so if it he does wander, he'll be easily found."

Just fucking rich. This was supposed to be a secure facility and they had the most dangerous thing alive walking around, thinking it was human. Humans were less reliable than machines. Machines did not feel, could not be frightened or angry and act impulsively. 

Logistically this was a nightmare. 

•• •• •• •• ••

Brock booked it back to his office.

He wanted to go back out for a smoke or run back to his house and hide under the covers like he did when he was a kid and his old man had drank too much and was knocking his mother around in the next room. Both were not options. He now had 263 messages in his email. 

For fuck's sake. 

When he accepted the promotion 'copious amounts of bullshit paperwork' was not listed as a responsibility. It consumed a good portion of his day which kept his mind off of Jack and off of the Asset.

Eventually his inbox was sorted and a reminder chimed in his calendar for the meeting. There was still technically one unopened email subjected: SECURE#ASSET-SIGHTING which Brock imagined further detailed the Soldier's 'understanding' and 'observation'. He took the long way to the conference room wondering what renovations had been done. 

Staff bowed their heads in a semblance of respect and greeted him as Commander. He could feel his ego inflating but it was much better than working with Captain America. He wasn't shadowed by anyone here, he cast the shadows others loathed being in. 

Strike was all there, even Michaels grinning widely and just radiating pride. Brock knew that the only way Pierce had gotten Michaels to help on the project was manipulating his own good intentions. Hydra had a few kinds of agents: the sadists who did the job because they loved killing, the big-headed noblist who felt they were making all the difference in the world and this would be their claim to fame, the saps who were just too fucking useful to pass up and were presented with the choice of pledging their undying loyalty or death of them and all their loved ones and those just gullible enough to think Pierce was heading the organization for the good of the world. 

Of course the good of the world was at stake; wars, death, pain and suffering: chaos though carefully contained was thriving and maybe Hydra could fix it. Brock truly felt it was the only organization of their time working toward world order and yes, there were casualties but think of the lives saved. Sometimes hurt but order could only come through pain.

Heads snapped around and the team made an attempt to stand — first and last time for the season Brock suspected. "Let's get started so we can finish."

The kind of mentality worked best for his team: get to the point and get there quick. It did no good to pussyfoot around something that needed to be done anyway. He ran down the usual reminders (no, you can't swipe your badge for someone else and yes they'll know if you do, they've got cameras you dumb fucks) and then, with heart heavy with regret tried to give a brief recap of the Soldier's new protocols. 

As expected he got a volley of questions he couldn't answer about assurance that he wasn't a danger and what they were supposed to say to him if he spoke to them ("is he even allowed to do that? I don't think that's allowed." Xaff, a temp agent said in his nasally tone). Thankfully Michaels looked hopefully toward Brock and he excused himself turning the floor to him. He didn't expect Rollins to follow but he couldn't order him back to listen to things he was already briefed on. 

"You good?" Jack asked they stood in the elevator. It was slow and there was strange thumping noise that made Brock nervous. You'd think with all the renovations Pierce would have fixed the elevators. Or maybe it was Rollins' husky tone that had his stomach up in knots. "You've been weird today."

I'm fine or it's none of your fucking business would have been the best replies. Instead Brock glowered down at the blank phone screen in front of his face and muttered, "Like you'd give a shit." 

He sounded like those chicks he avoided in bars. The bitchy ones who craved drama and needed it to keep things 'interesting'. The 'I saw you looking at the waitress's ass' kind even though he was clearly waving for the check. Of course he had hadn't dated a girl since... Fuck, Basic? "Okay." was all Jack said and went silent.

Brock's throat felt tight and when he blinked it was like tiny grains of sand and slipped beneath his lids. He wouldn't cry. He wasn't queer. He didn't care — but Christ did he wish Jack did. He wanted him to sling an arm around his shoulders and call him out on his bullshit. 

None of it mattered anyway because the emergency trap door at the top of elevator swung down, striking the side of the cube with ear ringing clang and a man dropped down. He landed heavily enough to make the entire elevator shudder and groan in opposition. Brock was caught between surging toward the threat (to protect Jack) or away from it (because fuck Jack). The fear was short lived as the man straightened up, a mechanical whirling made it obvious that it was the Soldier — but why the hell was in an elevator shaft? 

It was unnerving to say the absolute least. The Asset had, in the past, been kept on a constant watch. It didn't leave the cell when not active and it most certainly did not roam unaccompanied. But this was Michaels' and Pierce's 'grand' idea. "Soldier," Jack's voice was steady as if he hadn't been scared shitless by the sudden arrival. Brock wanted to touch his wrist and see if his pulse was still bounding with adrenaline but that would make him lose whatever fucked up game it was they were playing. "The fuck are you doing?"

Steel blue eyes, free of makeup, leveled on Rollins. It was calculating and curious and it's head titled a bit to the left. Some floppy ears and the Winter Soldier would have been nothing short of a goddamn dog. The arm whirled once more as he pointed up the ceiling. The muzzle was still in place, thank Christ, and it seemed whatever programming Michaels had bothered to stick into it's newly emptied skull told the Asset it wasn't permitted to remove it. 

Jack glanced up at it, lips pressing into a hard line. He could have been frustrated, bored or even suppressing a smile. Brock  didn't read him as well as he would like. "Uh huh." Jack's arms crossed over his chest: a 'disappointed parent looking for an explanation on why their child was out past curfew' look. Had they been on better terms, Brock would have snickered at that. "Why the hell were up there?"

The Soldier spoke, muffled behind the mask and clearly Russian. Brock fumed — clearly they hadn't done as good of a job as they thought they did if those commie pricks' programming was still hanging around. "Da," Jack was fluent and Brock was okay. "English Soldier."

The Soldier cocked his head again. "Commander. Agent Rollins," the Soldier's voice was usually deep and rusted with lungs full of the cryofluids but now it seemed softer, more human and it made Brock uncomfortable. "Observing inner workings of... лифт."

Brock racked his brain for a translation. Christ he needed to brush up on it. Jack glanced at Brock, waiting for him to reply. Right, he was Commander, this was his job. "Is that a valuable use of Hydra time?" he spit as ferociously as he could because fear had always won out the Soldier's respect in the past.

He didn't look away which wasn't customary after Brock used such a tone. His blood boiled and he hated today even more. "Director Pierce gave permission." It was like a taunt; he recognized that Pierce was above Brock in the pecking order so now his control was shot to shit. He thanked Christ that only Rollins was here and not anyone who really mattered (but of course Rollins mattered, Brock just wished he didn't). "Observing лифт."

"English." He snapped again as the elevator chimed. лифт must have been elevator. It was all that made sense.

The Soldier looked eagerly toward the ceiling, clearly intending to clamor up and 'observe' the elevator going up again. Brock grabbed his flesh arm and The Soldier's body tensed; plates clicking ominous as the hydraulics hissed in the other arm. He could crush his skull with a punch. Brock made steady, unwavering eye contact. The Soldier was taller but he was a subordinate; Brock would show no fear. "You stay the fuck outta there alright? It's dangerous."

For Soldier and for the people riding in it. The ancient piece of shit just needed one wrong cable messed with and then Hydra would lose it's Asset and whatever poor techs or agents were riding it. He seemed to consider Brock's order and for a moment Brock wondered how he would respond to disobedience now. "I have my own room." the Asset said, posture relaxing. The doors slid open. "Can the Command look?"

When it came to independent thinking the Soldier always seemed a bit childish which was understandable seeing as his brain was being melted and frozen on a regular basis. But being invited to see that hole in the basement where they kept him was just...sad. "Maybe later." Meaning definitely never.

His blue gray eyes fell and while the rest of his face was hidden beneath the mask Brock could imagine how rejected the look must have been. He wouldn't allow himself to swayed: pouting or no pouting he was the Commander — and the Soldier, no matter what protocol changes were given, would obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed and if you did please let me know!


End file.
